


Buried Deep

by hexagonad (ideserveyou)



Category: The Mighty Boosh (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awkward First Times, Fluff, Food Porn, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Showers, Sleeping Bag Sex, Thunderstorms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-08
Updated: 2013-10-08
Packaged: 2017-12-28 20:23:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ideserveyou/pseuds/hexagonad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Howard has come back from the dead, but something's still bothering Vince.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

Howard stops sweeping leaves, and leans on his broom handle.

“Vince, can I have a word?”

 

“What? – That was it, by the way.” Howard can see the anxiety in Vince’s eyes, despite the cheeky grin. Especially since he’s standing only two feet away.

Howard shakes his head in annoyance. “I’ve been back from Limbo for three days now, and to be honest I’m getting a bit fed up with this.”

“What?” Vince shuffles a bit closer, staring hard at Howard’s face, as though trying to see through it to the thoughts behind.

Howard steps back, avoiding contact.

“What?” The blue eyes are scared now.

“Will you stop saying that!” Howard snaps.

“What?”

“ ‘What!’ ”

“Now you’re sayin’ it.”

Howard puts the broom against the wall before he can clout his colleague over the head with it. He takes a deep, calming breath. “Listen, Vince…”

Vince’s mouth opens. Howard shoots him a warning glance and glares meaningfully at the broom. Vince shuts his mouth again.

“I’ve been doing this job for ten years,” Howard continues. “I think I know how to shovel crap into a wheelbarrow on my own. Or fill a bucket with water on my own. Or distribute seeds equitably between the small animal cages. On. My. Own.”

Howard tries to ignore the look of hurt on Vince’s face. This is for his own good, after all. Nobody needs a plus-size bag of monkey nuts inserting where the sun don’t shine.

But that is what will happen if Vince doesn’t stop following him and staring at him all the time: insisting on observing Howard’s morning jazz trance from a distance of six inches, bobbing up from behind the hedges, interrupting every potential tender moment with Mrs Gideon by appearing at just the wrong time with a falsely cheery “Alright, Howard?”

Howard is not alright with it. Not at all.

“What I’m trying to say, Vince, is that I…”

“Don’t want me around.” Vince is paler than usual. An imaginative man might even say that he was trembling slightly. Howard doesn’t have that sort of imagination, but even so he tries to soften his tone.

“I wasn’t saying that exactly, no. But there are certain times when a man needs to be alone. Thinking his own thoughts, lost in his music, you know?”

“So… following you to the bathroom and standing right outside the door is a bit over the top, yeah?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

“OK.” Vince sounds crushed. He turns away, picks up the broom and half-heartedly sweeps a few leaves from one side of the path to the other, and back again. “Howard?”

“What?” Howard smiles, trying to lighten the mood.

But Vince doesn’t rise to the bait. His thin face is uncharacteristically serious. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.” Howard takes a step nearer. Even an unimaginative man would now say that Vince is definitely trembling. And he’s not staring at Howard any more: he’s looking straight past him, out into the courtyard.

Howard turns to see what Vince is looking at.

Of course.

The newly turfed mound where only three days ago they were gathered for Howard’s funeral.

Howard kicks himself. And then again, harder.

All through his unscheduled trip to Monkey Hell via Limbo, even when he’d come back as a ghost, Howard had never accepted the fact of his own death.

But Vince had had to. Howard’s talked to Naboo, so he knows. Vince was the one who found Howard in the gorilla cage, who tried to revive him, who had to go to the hospital and identify his best friend’s dead body.

And who hasn’t spoken about it since Howard’s return, avoiding the subject every time it crops up, but who has not been able to let Howard out of his sight…

Howard takes the broom gently out of Vince’s hand. “What is it, little man?”

Vince takes a deep breath and says in a rush, “How do I know you’re really you?”

“Erm, well, of course I’m me.” Howard doesn’t know quite what he was expecting, but it wasn’t this. “I know I’m me. Same old boring Howard.”

“Yeah, but you _would_ say that, wouldn’t you? And you look just the same, but Bollo came back all different, younger’n everything.”

“Ah. That’s because he told the Ape of Death – ”

“You mean the monkey with the lovely hair?”

“That’s the fellow. Bollo told him Naboo wanted a familiar but not one who was old and rubbish. So they made him thirty years younger and sent him back, as a favour to the Maker of the Miracle Wax…”

“Naboo still thinks he’s a bit rubbish.”

“He’ll come round. He can’t afford a fancy familiar anyway, not with the amount he spends on illicit substances…” Howard tails off. Maybe Vince isn’t the only one who is avoiding the subject.

Vince is still looking at the grassy mound, and chewing his lip.

“So,” Howard says, in what he hopes is a brisk and reassuring tone, “you’re worried I might still be a ghost, is that it?”

“Not exactly,” Vince mutters.

Howard puts down the broom, and does something he very rarely does: puts a hand on Vince’s shoulder. “Feel that? Real and solid. When I was a ghost, you couldn’t touch me, remember? Well, now you can.”

Vince shakes his head. “No, I can’t. You never let me.”

“I’m letting you now.”

“ ’S’not about whether you’re a ghost, Howard. I know you’re not.” Vince’s voice falls to a terrified whisper. “But I can’t help wondering… _is there anybody still in that box?_ ”

"Of course not. I'm out here, not in there. Trust me on that."

"Cheers, Howard. I'll try."

…

Howard wakes from a deep and complicated dream about trumpets, and looks up at the familiar, cracked ceiling of the zookeepers’ hut with a vague feeling of disquiet.

He shouldn’t be awake.

Nobody has said “Howard?” or poked him to see whether he’s still breathing. Vince’s face isn’t an inch from his own, staring at him.

So why isn’t he asleep?

“Vince?” he whispers.

There is no reply.

Howard reaches out to feel for Vince’s sleeping bag, and finds it cold and empty.

There’s no light in the kitchen, and none showing under the bathroom door.

“Vince?” Howard calls.

Nothing. Just a faint whisper of wind, and a few drops of rain on the roof.

Howard gropes for the lamp, and clicks it on.

Vince isn’t on the sofa, either.

There’s a roll of thunder in the distance. Ah. Maybe that’s what woke them both. Vince hates thunder. Normally he’d have wriggled over to bury his head in Howard’s shoulder and have Howard cover his ears until it stopped.

But since their little chat this afternoon, Vince has been trying hard to respect Howard’s personal space. He must have decided that Howard’s shoulder was off limits, and gone to take refuge with some animal or other instead.

Perhaps he’s having a nice chat with Bollo. Or sticking his head in the Ambient Hutch to try and calm himself down.

Or maybe he’s just wandering about out there in a panic…

With a sigh, Howard reaches for his dressing gown, crawls reluctantly out of his nice warm sleeping bag, and slides his feet into his chilly work shoes.

He pulls the door open; peers out through the falling rain.

“Vince?”

Still no reply.

Howard ties his dressing gown cord tighter, and steps out into the night.

It’s really pissing down now, and the threatening growls of thunder are getting closer. Howard is soaked in seconds. He’s just wishing he’d stopped to put on socks and a raincoat, when he freezes in terror.

Something is moving in the middle of the courtyard.

Something shapeless and sodden and filthy.

It’s lurching about in the mud and emitting an unearthly moaning.

And it’s doing it right on top of Howard’s grave.

Cold sweat trickles down Howard’s back, mingling with the cold rain that was already doing the same. Every hair on his body stands on end, even the ones in his moustache. His chest is tight, his heart thunders in his ears, and when he opens his mouth to cry “No, don’t kill me, I’ve got so much to give!” all that comes out is a pathetic squeak.

Then it gets worse.

The – thing – calls his name.

Could Vince be right? Is Howard just a figment of someone’s deranged imagination? Has he been living a lie these past three days, while the real Howard was turning in his grave?

Has he now risen from the dead to haunt himself?

“Hooowaaard…” The moaning cry comes again, and the – whatever-it-is – holds out a dripping something that might once have been a hand. It’s armed with a club. Its pale rags flap in the wind.

Howard swallows hard, and musters what little resolve is left to him. Best do what it wants, and get it over with. Crossing a zombie is not a wise thing to do, even for a seasoned Man of Action.

Thunder cracks right overhead, and a flash of lightning illuminates the Zooniverse with startling clarity.

The thing screams, and drops to its skinny knees, its highlighted hair flattened by the rain...

Released from his paralysis, Howard races across the yard, with no time even to feel embarrassed at his mistake.

He kneels beside the huddled figure. “Vince! I’ve – ”

“Howard, oh Howard, I was so scared…”

“You utter tit, what in hell’s name are you doing out here?”

“I couldn’t sleep – and I didn’t want to wake you – but I had to know.”

Vince is sobbing and shuddering, clad only in his vest and underpants, his hands and arms plastered with mud to the elbows. He is clutching the big wooden spoon they use to mix the monkeys’ fruit salad; clinging to it so hard his knuckles are white.

“You were trying to dig with _that?_ ”

“I – I couldn’t think what else.”

“Idiot. There’s a bloody great dung shovel on the wall in the hut, isn’t there?”

“I didn’t think.” Vince looks utterly woebegone. Howard gives his arm a friendly squeeze.

“Stay there. I’ll go and get it.”

Vince’s eyes are shining. “You mean – you’ll help? I thought you’d try to stop me.”

Howard shakes his head. “I don’t pretend to understand, but if it’ll sort you out in your weird mind-tank then yes, I’ll help. Of course I will.”

“Thanks, Howard,” Vince says softly.

Howard races back to the hut for the shovel, grabbing a blanket too.

Vince hasn’t moved. Howard wraps the blanket round him; sits him down on the wall surrounding the turf mound.

“Now, sir, observe the ease of digging when one is equipped with the proper implement.”

The ground is soft and soggy; it’s not long before the shovel scrapes against something hard and hollow-sounding.

Vince whimpers.

Howard sets his teeth, and continues.

Soon the top of the cardboard coffin is laid bare, with its wonky felt-tipped inscription.

“Didn’t you mean _R_.I.P.?”

“I knew what I meant, Howard.” Vince glances at the grave, his face pale and scared. “Open it,” he whispers.

Howard puts down the shovel, grips the chilly, damp rim of the lid, and pulls upwards, hard.

There is a roll of thunder.

Vince gives a short, sharp scream of anguish and turns his head away.

Howard summons all his Northern grit, which at this moment would be about enough to make a couple of grains of Northern sand, and makes himself look…

The box is empty.

Howard lets out the breath he hadn’t realised he was holding.

He can hear Vince sobbing behind him.

“It’s all right, little man.” He drops the lid; puts a hand on Vince’s shoulder. “It’s empty. Look.”

Vince gets slowly to his feet, his back still turned to the grave. “You promise?”

“I promise. There’s nothing there.”

“You might just be saying that.”

“I might, but I’m not. But you won’t know, unless you look.”

He turns Vince round. Waits for him to pluck up courage to open his eyes.

There is a gasp, and an agonised wail: “Howard, Howard, _my Howard_ …”

And Vince flings himself into Howard’s arms with such force it almost winds him.

“Don’t –” Howard checks himself, just in time, as he feels Vince shrink away. “Don’t cry.” He wraps both arms around his best mate’s slight frame, and hangs on. It feels surprisingly good, actually. He pulls Vince closer against him. “It’s all right now. It’s going to be all right.”

“But I’m so sorry…”

“Nothing to be sorry for. Don’t be daft.”

Vince sniffs, and wipes his wet face on Howard’s shoulder. “I’m sorry anyway. It must’ve been horrible, thinking that I thought you weren’t you.”

There is another rumble of thunder, and the rain pelts down even harder.

Howard can hear Vince’s teeth chattering.

“Come on, you’re freezing, we need to get you inside.”

“Shouldn’t we clear this up first?” Vince looks round at the wreckage of the courtyard.

“Are you sure you’re the real Vince?” Howard smiles. “It’s OK to leave it. There won’t be any visitors tomorrow, not in this weather. We’ll sort it in the morning.”

A quarter-smile touches Vince’s lips. “Are you sure _you’re_ the real Howard?”

“Well, we didn’t find any other ones.” Howard gestures at the empty coffin.

Vince makes a small, exhausted sound and sags against Howard’s chest. Howard picks him up bodily, astonished at how light and fragile he feels, and carries him carefully back to the keepers’ hut.

…

“Come on, you bastard, wake up!”

Howard thumps on the wall in the precise spot that ten years’ experience has taught him is the most effective, and the ancient and temperamental geyser coughs reluctantly into life, filling the tiny bathroom with a heady mixture of fumes and steam.

“There you go,” Howard says cheerfully, fiddling randomly with the taps until the erratic spray from the corroded shower head reaches a temperature that isn’t either tepid or scalding. “Better get under there before it changes its mind.”

He turns to Vince, who is propped unsteadily against the washbasin in the corner. “I’ll get out of your way. But don’t be too long, or I’ll freeze. Gimme a shout when you’re done, yeah? And don’t turn it off, I’ll never get it started again.”

He is about to open the door when Vince clears his throat and says faintly, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? Don’t open the door? Look, it’s all right, the only scary thing out there was you, and you’re in here now. I’m going to go and put the kettle on…”

“Don’t leave me.”

Howard leans his back against the door, and looks at his friend with concern.

Vince is the picture of misery. His much-cherished hair is plastered flat to his scalp and dripping down the back of his filthy T-shirt; his face is smeared with mud and deathly pale, and his eyes are red-rimmed and staring.

His thin chest heaves with panic. “Please…”

There’s a chilly draught coming under the door, nipping at Howard’s cold ankles. A legitimate excuse to stay in the steamy warmth of the bathroom is suddenly very welcome.

Even though it means… _Oh_.

Howard feels himself blushing, and reaches for the door handle again.

“ ’Tisn’t about sex or anything. I promise.”

Damn Vince and that inconvenient way he has of reading Howard’s private thoughts at very inopportune moments.

“Honestly, look at the state of us, what are we going to – an’ I know you don’t wanna go there. I just – ”

And suddenly Vince’s legs won’t hold him up any more, and Howard steps forward to catch him, and Vince is right, it’s not about sex, not even when they are both stripped and squashed together in the inadequate shower cubicle and washing the mud off each other with some bubbly fruit-flavoured concoction that under normal circumstances Howard would refuse to have any truck with.

Not even when Howard is watching Vince’s skin warming from marble-pale to a healthy pink, and just happens to glance down, his eyes following the slide of the bubbles, to catch a glimpse of the dark thatch in his groin and the pale cock curled in its midst...

Not even when Vince’s wet body happens to brush against a part of Howard that nobody else has been permitted to touch for as long as Howard can remember, and Howard finds that he can’t remember why he didn’t like it being touched...

Not even when Vince allows Howard to wash his hair for him, bending his head forward and making little contented noises as Howard massages his scalp and spends, if he will be honest, slightly longer than is strictly necessary to finish cleaning every speck of grit from the unexpectedly soft and vulnerable nape of Vince’s neck…

And then the geyser coughs and dies, and all such thoughts are forgotten in the frantic fumble to get the taps turned off before anybody loses any vital extremities to the freezing water.

…

“I didn’t sleep at all that first night,” Vince says, putting his empty cocoa mug on the floor among the crumpled tissues, and burrowing further into the assorted blankets that Howard has piled on the sofa. “After you were… After Naboo and me got kicked out of the hospital. We came back here because I didn’t want to go back to my flat. Naboo was great. He stayed with me, gave me some stuff to drink that made me all floaty and weird, but at least it stopped me yellin’ and throwin’ things. That was why they chucked us out. Big fat ward sister chased me down the corridor with a syringe, tellin’ me I needed sedation, but I didn’t, I just needed you.”

“It’s all right.” Howard passes Vince the box of tissues. “I’m here now.”

“It was all wrong when you weren’t.” Vince wipes his eyes, and sniffs. “Like the whole world had gone wrong, but not in a good way. And all the time I kept expecting you to just walk in the door. Right up to when we had your funeral, and I made them take the lid off so I could say goodbye, and you were lyin’ in that box…”

Howard pats him on the shoulder. “Don’t think about it.”

Vince doesn’t seem to have heard. “You were cold. Ice cold. I freaked out – totally lost it. Naboo gave me more of that floaty stuff to get me through doin’ the speech an’ that. I wanted to do that for you. I did my best. It wasn’t very good but – ”

“Hey. It was fine. Really.”

“But I got the music all wrong and everyone was watching and I didn’t know what to say…”

In spite of the blankets, Vince is still shivering. Howard gets off the sofa, and picks up the two crumpled sleeping bags from the floor. “Come on, you’ve been talking non-stop for an hour. You need to go back to bed. Listen, shall I zip these together? Just for tonight?”

Vince looks at him in mute surprise.

“It’s not about… you know… _that_ ,” Howard says hastily. “I just thought it would be warmer if we could share all the blankets. And you need to know I’m still there, and I need to know you’re not going off on another archaeological excavation.” He shakes the sleeping bags straight. “What d’you reckon?”

“Cheers, Howard, ’preciate it,” Vince mumbles.

Howard takes that as a ‘yes’.

…

Another hour later and several degrees warmer, but no nearer getting back to sleep, Howard says for the fourth or fifth time, “I still don’t get what you were so worried about. As far as I was concerned, I wasn’t dead.”

“As far as I was concerned, you were. For three whole days. Dead and cold and shut in a box. And when you came back, I couldn’t forget that. I thought maybe you were – I dunno – a clone or something.”

“Yeah, but why should that make any difference? I was still alive, still your best mate. Still Howard. With Howard’s memories, magnetic personality, innate style, love of jazz...”

“But it _did_ make a difference. All the difference in the world. You were real, and there, and I knew you were Howard. But how could I be sure you were _my_ Howard?”

“I’m sorry, but I still don’t understand.”

Vince heaves a deep breath, and puts on his storytelling voice.

“When you were a kid – I mean, even _you_ were a kid once, right? – did you have a favourite stuffed animal that went with you everywhere? I had a leopard. A beautiful spotty leopard, with green eyes and the softest fur in the world. His name was Jahooli.”

“I had a tortoise made of tweed. I can’t remember its name. What’s your point?”

“Well, was there ever a day when you couldn’t find it, and you panicked and looked everywhere, and your mum brought it back hours later, but it was the wrong colour and smelling all funny and she told you she’d just washed it because it was so filthy but you knew she hadn’t, she’d thrown it out and got you a new one…”

Howard murmurs something non-committal. He hadn’t objected when his mum had given the tortoise to the jumble sale; he’d never been that attached to it. (And he had been eighteen at the time.)

But for Vince, it had clearly been different. For Vince, it had been traumatic.

Like losing his best friend.

“…And she kept telling you it was the same but it wasn’t, you knew it wasn’t, and you tried to love it just as much because you needed the comfort so bad…”

The storytelling voice has gone now, replaced by the quavery, high-pitched tones of a lost and heartbroken little boy.

“… but you missed the smell of dried snot and the bald patch behind its left ear and the whiskers that used to tickle your nose in just the right place as you fell asleep, and worst of all…”

He chokes on a sob; forces himself to go on.

“Worst of all was the thought of where the old one had gone. Of your best friend stuffed in the dustbin all alone and cold and headed for the dump… I couldn’t bear it.” He sniffs. “Still cracks me up just thinkin’ about it.”

“Try not to think about it any more. It’s all right now.”

“No, it’s not… But it will be… Have you got the tissues over there?”

At length the quiet weeping ceases, and Vince’s breathing slows and deepens into the steady rhythm of sleep. Howard squeezes Vince’s hand, which he realises he has been holding for some time, then gently unlinks their fingers.

Vince murmurs a sleepy protest.

“Just… got to go to the bathroom,” Howard mutters hoarsely. “Won’t be long…”

Once safely behind the locked door, he leans against the wall in the furthest corner and lets his own tears come, as silently as he can, muffling the heaving sobs in his pyjama sleeve.

Oh, little man…

He feels broken open, shattered into pieces, and it takes him a while to pull himself together despite giving himself one of his severest talkings-to.

And now his face is wet; and dammit, the toilet roll’s run out and the new ones are in the kitchen, and all the dry towels are piled on the makeshift bed and only the soggy filthy ones are left in here…

Howard splashes some cold water on his face, wipes it on the least repulsive of the towels, and goes back to bed.

It’s blissfully warm in there, and Vince’s hand is still stretched out into Howard’s half of the sleeping bag. Howard takes hold of it to move it out of the way; but once he’s got himself comfortable, he doesn’t let go of it again.

He lies looking at the familiar, cracked ceiling with a vague feeling of anticipation, listening to his best friend snoring softly.

Tomorrow, he’ll tell him that it really is all right now, and watch the clouds of doubt clear from those brilliant blue eyes as Vince realises that – for once – Howard actually does understand.

There are a few other things that Howard would like to tell Vince, too, but he doesn’t think he’d be able to say them out loud, not yet.

Maybe one day he’ll be able to say those things. Maybe one day it _will_ be about… _all that._

It wouldn’t be so bad, actually. 

Ernest, he remembers suddenly, as he pulls the blankets up to block the draught. Its name was Ernest, and it was a tasteful muted shade of olive taupe. He’d always rather taken it for granted. Until it was gone, and he regretted not having the courage to admit that it was important to him. 

The draught is still niggling at his shoulder. He tugs at the blanket, and shifts a bit nearer to Vince’s warmth. 

“Howard?” Vince stirs uneasily. 

“Go back to sleep.” Howard pulls him close. “I’ll be here if you need me. I may not smell of old snot or have a bald left ear…” 

Vince nestles into Howard’s shoulder, and tilts up his head to plant a chaste and sleepy kiss on Howard’s cheek. He giggles softly. 

“What?” Howard asks. 

“ ’S alright, Howard. Your whiskers still tickle in the right place.” 


	2. Chapter Two

“…Your whiskers still tickle in the right place.”

 

“I’m glad about that… Goodnight, little man.”

“G’night.” Vince wriggles just a little closer to Howard, breathing in his clean-Howard smell, feeling the pulse beating in Howard’s neck where Vince’s cheek is pressed against it.

He can’t resist reaching up one more time to feel the comforting tickle of those whiskers; but Howard has turned his head slightly, and Vince’s exploring fingers find only an unexpected dampness along the side of Howard’s nose.

“Howard?”

“Yeah?”

“You bin crying?”

“It was cold in the bathroom. And my eyes are tired.”

He’s been crying. Vince’s heart aches in a way he didn’t know it could. Big strong Howard, sobbing in the bathroom... “You could’ve stayed here to do that, you know.”

Howard sighs. “Sometimes…”

“A man needs to be alone with his music. I know. But cryin’s not music, is it? ’Tisn’t something you should do on your own.”

When Jahooli was taken away, he’d cried on his own for hours and hours, cried until he was limp and empty and his pillow was soaking. The not-Jahooli lay in the corner of the bedroom where he’d flung it, watching him with an unbearable silent sadness in its green eyes. Eventually he picked it up, meaning to hurl it out of the window, but ended up hugging it tight until somehow they managed to comfort each other.

Perhaps, even if Howard had turned out to be not-Howard, they would have found a way to do the same. Somehow.

He hugs Howard tight. “I’d have helped you. Like you helped me.”

“Thanks.” Howard is already drifting off to sleep. “Maybe next time, eh?” He eases Vince’s arm from round his ribcage.

Vince feels a sudden longing to kiss him again. He’s a bit surprised by this, and it’s rather scary, but not in a bad way. He doesn’t want Howard to be asleep, not yet. Perhaps he can keep him talking, just a bit longer.

“Howard?”

“Yes?”

“Was it my fault?”

“No, not really.”

“Then why –”

Howard draws a harsh breath through his nose, and moves a little further away. “Let’s just leave it, OK? It’s… complicated.”

Vince is intrigued now. He’s onto something here, although he’s not sure what. It’s like one of those faint stars you can’t see by looking straight at it, although when you look away it’s there, in the corner of your vision. He closes the gap between them, pressing as close as he dares to Howard’s right side.

“Howard?”

A resigned sigh. “What?”

“You know when you said it wasn’t about… _that_?”

The big body beside him tenses up. This is dangerous ground.

“It wasn’t,” Howard says flatly. “Look, I – ”

“Do you think it ever might be?”

There is a long silence. Vince can almost hear the cogwheels in Howard’s brain creaking as they process this presumably novel idea.

Vince is about to apologise and attempt to go to sleep after all, when Howard says carefully, “I dunno. Fraternising with one’s work colleagues is never advisable.”

“Didn’t stop you chasing after Mrs Gideon, though, did it?”

“That was different.”

Vince snorts. “Only diff’rence I can see is, that she wasn’t interested in you.”

“And you… are?” Howard’s voice catches on the last word.

“Well, yeah. Course I am. Why else would I be – ” Vince nudges his hardness against Howard’s hip.

“Oh.” Howard tenses up even more. Then he moves away again. Dammit, what’s he so afraid of? Vince’s disappointment is icier than the draught blowing into the gap between them.

“I think we should declare this conversation at an end,” Howard is saying. “We’re both tired, we need sleep, our rational judgement is compromised, we’ll regret it in the morning…”

Vince rolls onto his back, and bites his lip. What can he say? We’ve been tireder, there’s something we need even more, since when has my judgement ever been rational, and we so will not, no way, no sir.

But he doesn’t dare say any of those things, and Howard is slipping away from him, into the refuge of sleep where Vince can’t follow him.

A small voice says in Vince’s mind, Come on, you coward. It’s now or never. You went to hell and back for this man. You can’t let him run away from you now. And you know him so well. There must be a way… Ah, yes. Genius.

“Howard?”

“ **Shut up.** ”

Vince giggles. “Make me.”

There is a sharp intake of breath from beside him.

Then Howard rolls on his side, props himself on an elbow, and growls: “Well, sir, you asked for this.”

And leans over and kisses Vince firmly on the mouth.

Result.

The faint glimmer of the star comes into sharp focus, and the two of them are in a new and better place, a strawberry-bubblebath-scented universe where all sorts of new things are suddenly possible.

Including… _that_.

Vince puts a hand behind Howard’s neck and pulls him in harder, just in case he should change his mind, although he’s showing no sign of it. Howard’s lips part, and it’s all a bit clumsy and rather wetter than Vince would have said was ideal, but it’s just the best thing ever, because it’s Howard doing it. And whoever would have thought –

Vince pulls away, with sudden apprehension.

“Hang on, this ain’t supposed to ’appen.”

“Says who?” Howard is elated, glowing. He’s probably visible from space.

“It’s just – well, I’d always thought it’d take you ages to come round. That we’d have to be just-friends for years and years more, and have loads of stupid arguments and stuff, before you even noticed I even liked you.”

“Well, after tonight I can’t pretend I didn’t notice, can I?”

“S’pose not.” Vince nudges against Howard’s side again.

Howard laughs. “I didn’t mean… that. Well, not _just_ that. I meant…”

Vince takes his hand and links their fingers together. “I know what you meant. Trust me to pick a stupid way to get it through to you. All that mud ’n’ everything.”

“I’m sorry it was so hard for you.”

Vince sniggers.

Howard pokes him in the ribs. “Oi. This is difficult enough for me without you being facetious, sir.”

“I know.” Vince kisses him again, gently. “Thought you’d never understand.”

“Vince?”

“Mmm?”

“You did mean what you wrote on my coffin lid, didn’t you?”

“Course I did. You’re a Very Important Person. The very importantest. I’m not completely illegitimate, you know.”

“Illiterate,” Howard murmurs.

“Or that.”

“Vince?”

“Howard.”

“I… You…” Howard appears to be choking. Maybe he needs another kiss, to clear his airway.

It seems to work. Howard draws a long, shuddering breath, and the words come tumbling out, although they don’t all seem to be in the right order. “What you went through… and I made you go through it on your own… I thought everything was just back to normal… and I’m sorry… and…”

“C’m’ere, ya big Northern prat. I know what you’re tryin’ to say. So you can stop tryin’ to say it.”

Vince’s heart is overflowing with affection. He pulls Howard in close, and holds him until he stops shaking.

“Howard?”

“What?” Howard’s voice is muffled against Vince’s shoulder.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Anything. But you already know the answer’s yes. Yes, I am the real Howard Moon.”

“I wasn’t going to ask that.”

“Yes, it might one day be about… _that_?”

“Closer. But I wasn’t going to ask that either.”

“What, then?”

This is so scary. And the answer so has to be yes… Vince takes a deep breath. Now or never.

“Howard?”

“Yes, Vince?”

“Do you love me?”

“Answer’s still yes, Vince. You know it.” Howard props himself on his elbow again, and leans over for another kiss. “And now I know it too. I love you so much that I don’t know what to do.”

Vince has never seen him like this, all fierce and happy. And a little bit afraid, too, but defiantly determined not to let that stop him.

“I don’t know what to do,” Howard repeats, and his breath catches in his throat.

Vince strokes his back. “It’s OK, Howard. I do.”

He kisses Howard’s mouth, unable to resist the temptation of those whiskers; then pulls him down onto his side, with his head on Vince’s left shoulder. He can feel Howard’s heartbeats shaking his ribcage; his own are pounding in his ears. Howard Moon is his, and in his arms, and not wearing enough to present any serious obstacle to… whatever Vince might choose to do…

But he has to get this right. Unlike most other things in Vince’s rather carefree life so far, this matters.

This time, incompetence is not an option. If he screws this up, not even Naboo will be able to sort out the mess that will result.

No pressure, then.

Vince starts slowly, stroking Howard’s broad back, feeling each curve and plane through the thin pyjama cotton. As Howard relaxes against him, Vince expands his area of exploration downwards, into the little hollow at the base of Howard’s spine, then moves his hand round to rest on Howard’s hip.

Howard moans faintly, and Vince stills his movements.

“Anything you don’t want,” he whispers, “just say.”

“And – anything I do?”

Unexpected, this is. Vince kisses Howard with love and gratitude. “That, too. Even the hair.”

Howard laughs softly, and runs his fingers through Vince’s mane, dry now, albeit in a tangled mess that ordinarily would bother him but at the moment seems completely unimportant.

“You really do love me, don’t you?” Howard’s smile is brilliant in the dim light of the hut. “I’d always wondered what this would feel like. And it feels better than I dared imagine.”

“Me too.” Vince slides his hand under Howard’s pyjama top, tracing the lines of his ribs, savouring the warmth and fragrance of Howard’s clean skin. He touches one of Howard’s neat nipples, which is instantly hard under his fingertip; Howard arches against Vince’s side.

He’s hard _there_ too, and he must know that Vince can feel it, but it doesn’t seem to be bothering him any more.

Best ask before moving into such private territory, though. Just in case.

“You want me to…?” Vince pushes his hip gently against that tempting bulge.

“Well, yeah… but I’m a bit… it’s rather...”

Bless him.

“You haven’t done this before.”

“You know I haven’t. I’m a white blank page, Vince.”

“Don’t worry. Whatever story we write together tonight, I promise it’ll have a happy ending.”


	3. Chapter Three

“Oh.” Vince moves his hand, just a little.“Oh, you _do_ want me. You _do_ …”

Howard gives a nervous whimper.

“It’s OK, it’s OK, I’ll go easy on you, we can take this as slow as you like.” Vince keeps on murmuring reassuring nonsense as he strokes over the mound of Howard’s hardness, cups it in his palm, teases a fingertip over the small spreading patch of wet that’s leaking through the soft fabric.

The big man is big all over. Vince feels a thrill of delighted apprehension – or perhaps it’s apprehensive delight – as he takes in the sturdy, blunt heft of him, the smooth head with its pronounced rim, the heat radiating from the swelling shaft. “Beautiful,” he murmurs into Howard’s ear, “just beautiful…”

“Can I?” Howard coughs, and tries again. “Can I touch you, too?”

Vince had almost forgotten the highly excitable state of his own bits, in the amazingness of being allowed free rein with Howard’s; but the hesitant, loving, husky question almost undoes him on the spot.

“ ’Course,” he breathes, hastily clenching everything that can be clenched, just in case. “I’m all yours.”

To give himself a breather, he moves his own exploration to more neutral territory, slipping a hand under Howard’s paisley top to enjoy the smooth expanse of Howard’s stomach on the way to fulfilling a long-held ambition to push a fingertip into his best mate’s neat navel.

As he’d always suspected, it’s a perfect fit.

Howard’s hand is on Vince’s bare thigh, hesitating at the boundary of the rather minimal animal-print pants that were the only clean ones they’d been able to find after the shower.

“Whatever you want, Howard,” Vince breathes.

“You too.” Howard is barely audible.

Slowly, cautiously, Vince works his hand under the elastic of Howard’s waistband, feeling coarse hair beneath his fingertips, damp with sweat and sort-of… crunchy.

And then there is taut soft skin, and curvy bits, and more damp. It’s all a bit crowded and squashed in there, and hard to work out what’s what, so Vince lifts the fabric to let Howard’s shaft work itself free and bob up, all eager and bouncy.

Howard makes a surprised little noise, but he doesn’t tell Vince to stop.

Instead, he moves his own hand, crossing the boundary, cupping Little Vince as though he’s something very fragile that might shatter at a touch.

Not so far from the truth, actually…

“Is that OK?” Howard sounds all quivery and breathless.

“Yeah. More than OK. Genius.”

Vince is quivery and breathless too. All it is, is his best mate resting a hand on Vince’s down-below stuff; but it’s hotter and sweeter than a Nutella pancake, more exciting than the January sales, and making him dizzier than any of Naboo’s special cupcakes ever could.

Not because Howard’s doing anything special. Just because it’s Howard doing it.

Perhaps Howard might feel something like that too, if –

Vince takes hold at the base of what he presumes is called Little Howard, although it’s nothing of the sort, encircling it with thumb and forefinger.

There is another surprised and rather happy little noise, so he carries on, stroking and kneading, trying to take in all these new sensations and hammer them into his brain so he’ll never, ever forget how it feels to touch Howard like this, even if it’s the only time he ever gets to…

Howard moans as Vince’s hand moves slowly upwards.

Such an amazing contrast between the silky-soft, delicate skin and the firm, tough core inside it. All warm and pulsing and unfamiliar and yet so very, essentially Howard; as though, if this were the only bit left, you’d be able to reconstruct the whole of the rest of the man from it, like in a sci-fi film.

Vince’s fingers bump against the ridge around Howard’s tip.

And Howard is coming.

“Vince – let go – I can’t, I can’t stop it…”

Vince hangs on, helping Howard to ride it out, feeling him spilling warm and wet all over Vince’s hand and seemingly everywhere else too.

Howard cries Vince’s name again, and suddenly Vince is utterly undone.

This never happens. Vince Noir never loses it and comes in his underwear. Never.

But it’s happening now.

“Howard – don’t let go – ’m’coming too…”

And to Howard’s credit, he keeps his hand there as Vince thrusts desperately into it, shaken through and through by the hardest climax he can ever remember having.

The world goes dark and blurry for a bit; somebody is sobbing quietly.

Vince holds Howard close, and withdraws his sticky hand carefully.

“Good thing I didn’t finish all the tissues.” His voice has gone all wobbly. Bit like the rest of him. He cleans off the worst of the sticky, and dries Howard’s tears and then his own.

Howard fidgets uncomfortably in his damp trousers. “We should – ”

“In a minute, big man. That was… pretty intense, yeah? Give yourself a spot of recovery time.”

“OK.” Howard rests his head on Vince’s shoulder. Vince nuzzles into his hair, wondering how he could ever have doubted that this was his Howard.

All he had to do was to crawl into Howard’s sleeping bag. Not go out in the rain like an idiot and start grave-digging.

“Oh, blast,” Howard murmurs.

“Whass’ matter?” Vince still has a mouthful of hair.

“I don’t have any more dry pyjamas.”

“Oh, good,” Vince says, and giggles. “Neither do I.”


	4. Chapter 4

Howard wakes, and lies looking up at a streak of sunshine across the familiar cracked ceiling of the zookeepers’ hut with a vague feeling…no. A definite feeling of something having changed, very much for the better.

His neck is itching. He reaches up to push the source of the tickling away, but it murmurs his name and burrows closer, releasing a waft of artificial strawberry scent; warm bare skin is pressed against his own –

 _That’s_ what’s changed. From now on, it _is_ about –

 _Sex_.

Howard feels a little naughty thrill at thinking the word.

Resting his cheek against Vince’s hair, Howard breathes deep. This is a new experience for him: Vince’s close proximity is making him feel happy. Not threatened.

He hasn’t had much sleep, but he’s certainly had a lot of new experiences in the past eight hours or so.

Wanting someone else to touch him. Being able to let someone else touch him. Being touched by someone else.

All these were things he hadn’t thought he’d ever actually do. Let alone enjoy. He’d spent most of his life sticking to what he knew and felt safe with: mild tastes, restrained colours, old-fashioned music. Keeping the unfamiliar at arms’ length, building defences around his personal space.

Defences that Vince tore down one-handed.

Vince is the only person in the universe who could have done that. And somehow he’s done it without making Howard feel dirty, or ashamed. A little bit embarrassed and awkward, maybe, but that’s all right, because it seems to be the same for Vince, too, and they can get over it together.

Howard gives up trying to rationalise it, and just lets his mind go drifting on a sea of beautiful details of last night, savouring every one as it rises to the surface.

Clean wet skin sliding against his own, the bubbles trailing down…

The gentleness of Vince’s fingers and the complete trust Howard had felt as they closed around him.

Vince’s cock – Howard feels another little thrill at thinking that word – swelling under his hand.

The shock of his own release, and the tiny, broken sound Vince made as he came…

Vince is still peacefully asleep. Howard can’t see his face, just the tangled fall of his hair over the pale skin of one bare shoulder.

That hair’s going to take him all day to fix. It’s in a mess. But Howard has the feeling that for once, Vince won’t care.

“Howard…” Vince murmurs again, and rolls closer.

 _Most_ of him is still peacefully asleep.

Howard puts his hand onto his own stomach first, to check that it isn’t cold; then reaches down, wondering how far he’ll get before the rest of Vince wakes up.

You wouldn’t think that just the absence of one layer of fabric could make that much difference. But it does. Oh, it does.

At the first touch of a fingertip on the smooth skin of Vince’s erect shaft, Howard’s heart is thundering like jungle drums; and by the time he’s added a second fingertip, he’s standing to full attention himself.

There is no reaction from the sleeping Vince, so Howard goes on caressing the very wide-awake Little Vince, enjoying the total lack of clothing, and the mingled smells of strawberry shampoo and sweat and sex, and the little twitches and shudders that tell him his attentions are being very much appreciated, if not in the conscious brain department.

Eventually Vince raises his head and yawns elaborately. “Morning.”

“I’m sorry I woke you.”

Vince smiles. “You didn’t.”

“But you were…”

“Pretending to be asleep, yeah. I was hoping you might do, y’know, what you were doing. And then I carried on pretending, because what you were doing was so nice. But you’re gonna have to stop.”

Howard’s heart freezes with disappointment. Vince pretend-cuffs him round the head.

“Only so I can go for a wee, ya berk.”

 

…

 

Bathroom break over, they resume where they left off.

Vince trails a line of kisses all the way down Howard’s front, from his mouth to his collarbone and then to his navel, and onwards.

“Vince, I think that’s… far enough.”

Vince looks up, and grins. “Yeah, I know it’s a long way but it’ll be worth it when I get there.”

He nuzzles into Howard’s groin.

“Stop.” Howard reaches down to lift Vince’s face away from him. “I haven’t showered or anything.”

“No, you haven’t.” Vince’s smile is full of wicked delight.

Howard can feel his face glowing red, right to his ears. “Vince, I’m really not sure I can do this. I’m sorry.”

“Aww, Howard.” Vince stops what he’s doing, and lies beside Howard again. His voice is low and gentle. “My fault. I rushed you. I don’t mind taking it slow.”

“No – I mean I – I’m not sure I’ll be able to – ever.”

Vince cups Howard’s hot face between his palms.

“Howard. _Howard._ Listen, I don’t care if we never go further than snogging and hands. I really don’t. I want it to be good for you, is all. Before – with other people, girls an’ that, I just wanted to get off. But with you, that doesn’t matter. It’s nice, but it’s not _why_.” He looks anxious. “Does that make sense?”

“I think so. Yes.”

“Then take your time. I’m not goin’ anywhere. Think what you really want, and tell me.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Vince says, snuggling back into Howard’s arms. “We’ll get there. We just have to work out where _there_ is.”

Once more Howard lies looking at the familiar cracked ceiling of the hut, with a vague feeling of relief that he doesn’t have to do… whatever it was that Vince had in mind.

Now that he doesn’t have to do it, he realises that at least one part of him rather wanted to do it. At least to try.

It’ll probably be a bit embarrassing and awkward, but wasn’t he thinking earlier that they could get over that together?

And mightn’t it turn out to be like last night, or even better?

Little Howard is growing more optimistic by the moment.

“Vince…”

The look of hope shining in those blue eyes is enough to make Howard’s mind up for him.

“Could we try that again?”

 

…

 

“Vince?”

“Mmmfff?”

“This is wonderful, really amazing, but isn’t it a bit… one-sided?”

Vince looks up from between Howard’s knees. “How d’you mean? Oh…” He smiles reassuringly. “Don’t worry, everybody has one bollock higher than the other. ’S quite normal.”

“I knew that, actually, thank you,” Howard says. “What I meant was, you’re doing all the work. Isn’t there, er, you know, something I can do for you?”

“I’m sure we can think of something afterwards.”

“No – I mean – yes, but – Can’t I do something now? At the same time?”

“You’d really like to?”

“I would, yes. And judging by last night, I won’t be much good to you for quite a while afterwards. Is there a way I can, I don’t know, reach you? Can you turn round or something?”

“Sixty-niner?” Vince says cheerfully. “Why not? Tell me if this is a bit much, though.”

And he turns round so he is kneeling astride Howard’s neck.

“There you go. It’s all in easy reach if you want it, and if you don’t, just lie back and enjoy the view.”

Howard is speechless.

“Oh, and I promise I won’t say anything embarrassing, I’ll mostly have my mouth full.”

Vince leans forward onto his elbows, and is as good as his word.

For a little while, all Howard can do is to lie there with his eyes shut, focusing on the sweet wet warmth of Vince’s mouth around the head of his prick and loving Vince for the care he’s taking: not pulling Howard in too deep, breaking off every now and again to murmur words of encouragement and scatter gentle kisses on Howard’s belly and thighs.

“You’re beautiful,” Vince breathes. “Could look at your bits all day, you beautiful big daft Northern teacake…”

Man-bits have never struck Howard as particularly beautiful. But then, being called a teacake has never made his insides melt before. Perhaps he might risk a cautious peek at… that end of Vince…

“Oh.”

Vince slides off Little Howard with a wet slurp. “You OK up there?”

“Yes, fine, I’m just… erm, enjoying the view. Rather a lot.”

“Good. You can touch it too if you want. I’d like that.” And Vince goes back to work.

For the moment, just looking is overwhelming. Howard’s not sure quite where to look. This is a totally new perspective on his best friend, and he’s not sure he should be looking at all, really, but Vince seems happy enough to put everything up there for Howard to see.

He can, if he squints a bit, see _everything_. From the sprinkling of dark hair on the inside of Vince’s thighs, to the fuzz in his groin, and his balls hanging down, heavy and plump and much pinker than Howard had expected; to the elegantly tapered prick dangling at half-mast in front of them, a tiny bead of moisture already glistening at its tip.

And right above him, the glorious curves of Vince’s buttocks, and the dark and tempting cleft between them, and right on the limit of Howard’s vision the slight shadowing of the skin where it begins to pucker…

This ought to be so embarrassing.

But it isn’t.

Howard coughs nervously. “You’re beautiful.”

There is a happy mumble from somewhere in the vicinity of Howard’s balls, and Vince’s cock twitches and stiffens.

He did say he’d like to be touched…

Howard starts with Vince’s thigh, stroking the hairs against the grain and then flattening them down again. Each time, he lets himself get a little higher before turning back, until his knuckles brush against those dangling – balls (come on Howard, call things by their right names, it’s about time)…

On an impulse, he lifts his head and nuzzles cautiously into the thicket of hair in Vince’s groin, holding his breath as long as he can, expecting a waft of stale sweat and piss; but when he finally has to breathe it isn’t rank in there at all, in spite of last night’s activities. It’s clean and musky and nice, like ground coffee, or wholemeal toast, or the new woodshavings in the lemming hutches.

Vince makes a sort of stifled groan, and Howard lies back down and starts caressing Vince’s balls, weighing them in his palm, stroking the intriguing, furred ridge of flesh behind them.

“That’s good,” Vince moans, and slides his own fingers down there to show Howard just how good it is…

A drop of wet falls onto Howard’s cheek. Little Vince is leaking.

Another thing that ought to be embarrassing, but isn’t.

Combined with the pressure of Vince’s fingers, it just makes Howard achingly aroused.

He wriggles into a more comfortable position, and begins to touch, as he did when he thought Vince was asleep, stroking the silky skin, teasing the folds of the foreskin back from the shining, purple head, carefully spreading the wet all across the exposed smoothness.

Downstairs, Vince is doing the same for Howard, sharing the pleasure, deepening and multiplying it like the reflections in parallel mirrors.

And now Vince is taking Howard into his mouth again. Howard wants to give Vince that feeling too. From here, it would be so easy just to pull that slim, tapered hardness down a little, put his lips against it, slip it inside…

He lifts a hand.

“You don’t have to,” Vince whispers. He is quivering all over.

“Oh, but you’d like it if I did.”

“You still don’t have to.”

“I _want_ to.”

Before he can change his mind, before his habitual cowardice can re-surface and ruin everything, Howard takes firm hold of Little Vince, and licks across the hot, slick flesh.

“Oh, Howard…”

Howard reminds himself that he is a Man of Action, opens his mouth and takes Vince inside.

Little Vince tastes of… Vince. But more so.

And it feels…

If Howard had only known that giving a blowjob was like this, he’d have dropped to his knees in front of Vince years ago, and never got up again.

After a while he becomes aware that the taste is changing, becoming stronger and more earthy, that there are enthusiastic noises off-camera, and that Vince seems to be having trouble keeping still.

Ah.

He sort-of wants Vince to come in his mouth – the thought is more exciting than repulsive – but he’s worried he might choke and then Vince might think he didn’t like it, and he doesn’t want anything to spoil this.

So he slides him out and carries on working him with wet fingers, his other hand wrapping around Vince’s thigh and stroking his arse.

One fingertip slips into the cleft; brushes across hot, twitching, wrinkled skin.

Howard hastily takes his hand away… then does it again, testing himself.

The third time, he presses a little more firmly.

“Fuck, _Howard_ …”

Vince arches his back and thrusts into Howard’s other hand, hard.

Suddenly there’s wet everywhere, and Howard is watching, fascinated, as Vince comes all over his hand, and his chest, and quite a lot of the sleeping bag as well.

The aftershocks die down, and Vince flops down beside Howard, his head pillowed on Howard’s knees.

“Fuck.” Evidently sexual ecstasy doesn’t do much for Vince’s vocabulary. “That was amazing. You’re amazing. Fuck.”

Howard reaches for their dwindling supply of tissues and cleans up most of what he can reach.

“Cheers,” Vince says weakly.

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah.” Vince sits up and draws a hand across his brow. “Fuck.”

“I think you already said that.”

“Thought I was going to black out there for a minute. I mean, last night was pretty incredible, but that… ”

“It was… all right, then?”

Vince looks into Howard’s eyes. “Howard Moon, you are a total fucking genius at sex, OK? I mean, I never lose it. I never come first. Nobody has ever been able to make me come first. But you…” He shakes his head.

“I’m sorry. You should have told me to stop.” Howard turns his head away. He can feel his own erection subsiding; his ears reddening with embarrassment again.

“You prune, I didn’t want you to stop, I would’ve said if I did. And me losing it – that’s a compliment. Not anything you did wrong. I _liked_ you making me lose it.”

Vince leans over and presses a gentle kiss to Howard’s forehead. “Now – are you going to let me do the same for you?”

 

…

 

Boneless and limp with relief and bliss after what Vince justly described as “the best blowie I’ve ever given anyone ever”, Howard lies back on his slightly damp pillow and doesn’t even notice the cracks in the ceiling any more.

He can hear Vince cheerfully singing and clattering about in the kitchen, and his mind is full of nice thoughts about coffee and wholemeal toast. Not to mention still nicer thoughts about various parts of Vince’s anatomy.

Both lots of thoughts are interrupted by the arrival of Vince with a tray.

He’s made tea instead of coffee, and that’s OK, and the toast is white, and that would be OK too, but…

“I usually have marmalade on my toast, Vince.”

“Eeeuww.” Vince shudders. “Dunno how you can eat that for breakfast. It’s got fruit in it. This is much better.”

“What the heck is it?”

“Nutella. It’s genius.”

“Yes, but is it food?”

“Just try it. You’ll love it. And if you don’t – ” Vince grins provocatively “– I’ll eat yours as well.”

“ _And_ the Nutella?”

Vince laughs so hard he spills his tea all over the pillow. “I’m a bad influence on you, Moon, you know that? You never used to make dirty jokes.”

“Never used to be able to.” Howard takes a cautious bite of the brown, oozing toast. “Mmmm, hey, that’s not bad. If this is more of your bad influence, I like it.”

“Did I put enough on? There’s more in the jar if you want.”

“This is plenty. About twice as thick as the bread. Any more and it’ll disintegrate.”

Vince spoons a bit more onto his own slice, and bites into it with relish.

“See? Told you,” Howard says smugly.

“Never mind. It all tastes the same.” Vince folds the crumbling remainder of the toast into his mouth, and licks provocatively at his chocolate-smeared hand.

“Leave some for me, you piggy.” Howard grips Vince’s wrist, and runs his tongue tenderly and carefully around Vince’s slim and sticky fingers until they’re more or less clean. Then he takes one into his mouth, sucking and biting softly, finally letting go with that same wet slurp that Vince’s mouth had made earlier.

Which is no longer on Howard’s personal list of sounds he finds embarrassing. It’s pretty high up on the list of sounds he wants to hear lots more of…

Together with the small happy noise Vince made at the same time.

“Aww, Howard, and you’ve saved the best bit for me,” Vince coos, and proceeds to nibble and suck at Howard’s very chocolatey moustache, and then kiss him deliciously on the mouth. “Now d’you see why I made you tea? Coffee would have ruined the taste.”

“I understand your logic, sir. Yes, indeed. In fact I think I’ll switch to having tea at breakfast time in future.”

Vince sits hugging his knees, suddenly thoughtful.

“What do you think’s our future, Howard?”

“I dunno, little man. The zoo might not last for ever.”

A furrow shows between Vince’s brows. “What happens if it doesn’t?”

“It wouldn’t be the end of the world. We’d just have to do something different.”

“What would we do?”

“Oh, anything. Talented pair like us has lots of possibilities. We might become famous explorers, for example.”

“Yeah.” Vince’s blue eyes are shining with enthusiasm. “North Pole would be awesome. I’ve always wanted to meet a polar bear. They’re so cool.”

“They’re dangerous and unpredictable predators. And it’s cold up there.”

“OK, somewhere warmer then. Let’s get shipwrecked on a desert island. I fancy lying on the beach with you, under the palm trees…”

“And there’d be buried treasure. And mermaids.”

Vince giggles. “You gonna get marr-i-ed to a mer-ma-id, like in that stupid shanty they made us sing at school?”

“I don’t think that’s very likely.” Howard blushes, and moves hastily on, hoping to distract Vince from thoughts of wedding bells. He certainly isn’t ready for that yet.  
“Perhaps we could… travel to a distant planet.”

“Or be heroes and save the world from a disaster, like… an invasion of deadly demons or something.”

“Or work in a shop. I’ve always thought I might have a successful career in retail.”

“I’d make an awesome fashion designer. Or a personal stylist. Yeah, that sounds good. Vince Noir, stylist to the stars… Hey, and no more boring green zoo uniforms. We could reinvent our style and be punks. Or goths.”

“Hmmm. Not sure goth is a good look for me.”

Vince lifts up the sleeping bag and looks Howard up and down, making him blush. “With a figure like yours? You’re joking. You’d look dead sexy in tight black pants and eyeliner. We’d need to do something with your hair though…”

Delightful though it is to have Vince’s fingers ruffling through his curls, Howard needs to distract Vince from this train of thought. “I think we should go on a camping holiday. Rediscover our primitive selves. Perhaps do a spot of fishing.”

“I wanna write another Charlie book.”

“I want to be a famous actor.”

Vince flings his arms round Howard, and holds him tight. “As long as we’re still together, I don’t care what we do. That’s our future, Howard. You and me.”

“Of course we’ll be together. We’ll go sailing on the seas of time, into an unknown future. Future sailors, that’s us, Vince.”

“Hey, that’d be a great title for a song.” Vince kisses Howard with joyful abandon. “That’s it! Genius. We can form a band!”

“Jazz?” Howard says hopefully.

“Nah, electro.” Vince picks up his empty mug; taps out a rhythm on the floor.

They both start to sing.

“We are future sailors…”

…

Naboo is early for work this morning, picking his way through the puddles in the yard and trying not to get his new curly trainers dirty.

A burst of music and laughter comes from the zookeepers’ hut.

The little shaman smiles.

“ ’Bout time, you pair of numpties,” he murmurs to himself.

He waves a hand at the dug-up grave in a languid but powerful gesture, and watches the mess of mud and soggy cardboard resolve itself into a neat lawn with a little pond in the middle.

“Hey, Bollo,” he calls.

“Hey, Naboo.” The gorilla shambles over to the bars, and watches as Naboo fiddles with the catch on the cage door. “Hey, what you doing?”

“Lettin’ you out. You’re a shaman’s familiar now, not a zoo animal. An’ I need your help.”

“Bollo need _your_ help first. Bollo need breakfast. Harold no show with bananas yet.”

The door swings open. With a flourish, Naboo produces a bunch of bananas from one sleeve of his peacock-blue robes. “There you go.”

“Bollo like being familiar. Thanks.”

Naboo wipes bits of banana off himself, and sensibly waits for Bollo to finish the rest before resuming the conversation. “I think Vince and Howard are… gonna be a while.”

“What Harold doing with precious Vince?”

“They’re, um, still asleep.”

“You want Bollo go wake them up?”

Naboo smiles. That’s twice in one morning, and he hasn’t even had his first smoke of the day yet. Must be something in the air…

“Nah, leave ’em to it, they’ve got a lot of catching up to do. Come on, ya furry ballbag.”

“Where to, boss?”

“The storeroom. And bring that bucket. We’ve got some small mammals to feed.”


	5. Chapter Five

It's Wednesday night, it's Howard's night off, and it's half past ten.

Howard is plodding along a dingy street, with his head bowed and the collar of his tweed jacket turned up against the persistent drizzle.

Some night off this is turning out to be.

He’s on his own. And he’s miserable.

The two things are not unconnected.

Four weeks, he thinks bitterly. The longest serious relationship of his life – no, the _only_ serious relationship of his life – and it’s fallen apart in four weeks.

He has no idea how, or even whether, he can pick up the pieces.

The first hairline crack had appeared a fortnight ago, when he’d first started to worry that his state of permanent euphoria (not to mention near-permanent arousal) was too good to last; that Vince would lose interest, once the shock of Howard’s un-death had worn off, and start to take Howard for granted, or worse – trade him in for someone younger and trendier.

It was round about this time that he noticed that Vince was starting to needle him again. Nothing much, just making little, pointed comments about Howard’s floppy hair or the way his uniform was baggy in the wrong place, or saying Howard had more crow’s feet than last week, or changing the radio channel to Kiss FM when Howard had spent ages tuning it to Radio 3 so he could listen to ‘Jazz Record Requests’.

Each tiny dig getting deeper under the surface, doing damage that only Howard knew was there.

And yet Vince was so clingy. Howard had been making allowances: he knew Vince had been through a frightening time and didn’t want to be left on his own. And Vince had always been very… tactile. But although Howard’s body in general, and one part of it in particular, rather enjoyed the constant hugs and kisses and hand-holding and tickling and fondling when they were at work, as well as the rather mind-blowing sex when they weren’t, Howard’s brain couldn’t handle the sensory overload.

He knew it was only a matter of time. Pretty soon, something would snap and he would yell ‘Don’t touch me!’ out loud, as well as in his own head.

And then there would be a rift in their private universe, a flaw big enough for other people to see.

Last Wednesday, the day things started to go really wrong, Vince had breezed into the keepers’ hut at coffee time, waving a luridly coloured flyer and babbling on about some DJ or other that Howard had never heard of, who was doing a gig at the Velvet Onion that night.

“It’ll be genius, Howard! He’s got a wicked light show, and he does live sampling and lots of cool stuff, and there’s an open spot where people can have a go. All the trendy people will be there.”

Howard’s heart sank. Vince had been dragging him along to clubs on and off for years, and he knew what it would be like. Lots of too-loud noises and flashing lights and weirdly coloured alcopops and people half his age and wearing not-enough clothes, all of whom would want to talk to Vince, dance with Vince, buy Vince drinks…

“Not me, Vince.” The words were out of Howard’s mouth before he’d even had time to think about them.

“Awww, Howard, I didn’t mean you weren’t trendy. You are. You’re just ahead of the trend.”

“No, I mean, I’m not going to be there.”

Vince’s blue eyes narrowed. Howard could almost hear the sound of splintering glass as the crack in their beautiful two-person bubble deepened and spread.

“Why not?”

“I’ve got… things to do tonight, Vince.”

“But it’s our evening off. We always do stuff together on a Wednesday night. And Naboo and Bollo’re coming along…”

The crack widened, out of control; past the point where Howard could still choose to step across it.

“There you go, then. You don’t need me to come too. You go along, have a good time, I’ll see you tomorrow for the night shift.”

The hurt and confusion on Vince’s face had followed Howard all the way home, and even his peaceful, uninterrupted evening spent cataloguing his collection of tweed samples hadn’t given him quite the satisfaction he’d been anticipating.

On Thursday, it had seemed that perhaps the damage hadn’t been irreparable. Vince, Naboo and Bollo were in high spirits: the gorilla had stepped up to the turntables for a guest spot and been an instant smash hit, and the three of them had clearly had a wild and fun time.

They spent most of the afternoon busily planning Bollo’s future career as a DJ, which meant Bollo sitting in the kiosk looking smug, and Vince and Naboo talking a lot while Howard shovelled dung and distributed seeds and made the tea.

He didn’t complain. He felt too guilty.

Vince had been a bit quiet after everyone else had gone home, but he hadn’t said anything about Howard’s decision not to go to the club; and their usual activity in their conjoined sleeping bags on the Thursday night was tender and loving enough for Howard to go on pretending to himself that everything was fine.

But in his heart of hearts he knew it wasn’t.

You can’t mend broken glass with love and sticking plaster.

The autumn weather turned foggy and cold, and Vince’s little digs at Howard got deeper and sharper, and it got harder and harder for Howard to pretend they didn’t hurt.

On Tuesday, yesterday, he had been reading the jazz listings in the paper – to the accompaniment of considerable ribbing by Vince – and had seen an ad for a fusion concert in an obscure venue miles away from their usual patch.

Tonight.

This morning, a casually flung barbed comment about Howard’s shoes had found its mark, deep in Howard’s soul. He didn’t say anything. But he did make a decision.

At lunchtime, Vince had come bouncing into the hut and nicked the mug of tea Howard had just made for himself. “Cheers, Howard! Just what I needed, it’s freezin’ out there. You’re so good to me.” He landed a clumsy kiss on Howard’s cheek, and went to sit on the sofa, his hands wrapped around Howard’s favourite mug.

Howard sighed, and put the kettle on again.

Vince was grinning from ear to ear as he tucked into his sandwiches.

“What are you so cheery about?” Howard asked.

“Been shopping.” Vince indicated the carrier bag propped against the sofa. “And makin’ plans for what we’re gonna do tonight…”

“Woa, hold on there, I’ve got my own plans for tonight.”

“What plans?” Vince batted his eyelashes lasciviously at Howard. “Do they involve me and a big jar of Nutella, by any chance?”

That image was almost enough to make Howard change his mind.

But when Howard Moon has made a decision, he’s made a decision.

“No. I’m going out.”

Vince looked hurt. Much, much more hurt than Howard had expected.

This time, it wasn’t just a crack in the glass, it was a whole chunk falling off.

“Going out where?”

“To a jazz fusion concert.”

“Who with?”

Howard had anticipated this question. “Oh, a few people. Lester Corncrake, Arnold ‘The Hooter’ Ramsbottom, the usual crowd…”

“You’d rather go to some jazz confusion thing with your boring jazzy-freak friends than be with me?”

“I didn’t actually say that.”

The pieces of the bubble split apart and accelerated away from each other.

Vince’s features grew sharp; spiteful, even. “You didn’t actually need to. You’d actually rather stay at home and rearrange your stamp albums than be with me. Like last week.”

“I was cataloguing an important collection of historic textiles.”

“I don’t care what you were doing. My point is, you weren’t doing it with me.”

“Vince, I do pretty much everything with you, pretty much every day. And night, when it comes to it. So why shouldn’t I go out on my own on my night off? You did last week.”

“Only because you wouldn’t come too.”

“We don’t have to do everything together.”

“I thought that was the point. I thought that was what bein’ a couple was about.”

“Well, I thought being a couple meant having respect for the other person’s – personal space.”

Vince drew a sharp breath, as though to make some blistering retort. Then let it out again. “Howard.” His voice was a whisper, his eyes wide and shocked. “Are we – are we having a fight?”

“Yes, I rather think we are.”

“I don’t like it, Howard.”

“Neither do I. But I didn’t start it.”

“I didn’t start it either.”

“This is pointless. I’m going to feed the llamas. I’ll see you later.”

“Maybe,” Vince said listlessly, looking at the floor.

Being spat on by the llamas did nothing to improve Howard’s mood.

Vince didn’t reappear again all afternoon.

Howard went home on his own, and went out to the concert.

Which was rubbish. It was in a run-down church hall that took an hour to get to on the bus; and Bob Marley just doesn’t work as jazz fusion. It would have been OK if Vince had been there too. They could have had a laugh, if only at the ridiculous purple porkpie hat the drummer was wearing.

Well, they could, if they hadn’t just had a fight and stopped speaking to each other.

Howard had left at the interval, hoping he’d just catch the bus, but he’d just missed it, seeing the back lights moving smugly away through the mist as he rounded the corner.

So he’d gone back to the hall, where at least he’d be warm and dry while he waited an hour for the next bus, only to find they’d already closed the doors for the second half, and the band was making such a racket that nobody heard him knocking.

He thought briefly about the pub across the road, but he didn’t feel much like going in on his own. And still less like getting sneered at and beaten up by a bunch of pissed blokes half his age and twice his weight, which was what happened last time he’d been to a pub without Vince.

Sunshine Vince, who always seemed to be able to diffuse any potentially tricky social situations with a charm and assurance that completely eluded Howard.

And whom Howard now wishes bitterly he hadn’t just alienated forever.

It feels as though he’s been walking for hours; surely he should be home by now. He rouses himself from his self-pity for long enough to wonder where the hell he is.

Bugger.

He’s taken a wrong turn somewhere and now he’s nearly back at the Zooniverse and not at his flat.

Oh, what the heck, he’s got a key to the gate and there’s no way he’s going to sleep tonight anyway; he’ll go and offer to do the night shift for whoever’s on duty.

And there’s a bottle of Baileys in his locker in the hut. They were saving it for tomorrow night’s night shift. No point now. Howard can get pissed in solitary misery; and then maybe he’ll be brave enough to phone Vince, see if they can patch things over.

Maybe he’ll be brave enough.

Or maybe not.

It’s tricky, walking on broken glass.


	6. Chapter Six

There is a light still on in the keepers’ hut, and to Howard’s surprise a muted trumpet is playing softly.

He didn’t know he had a jazz-loving colleague.

As Howard lifts his hand to knock on the door, he freezes in astonishment. It can’t be.

But that sultry sound is absolutely unmistakable.

Whoever is on the night shift is listening to the legendary 1955 recording of the Jonathan ‘Six Fingers’ Rushmore Quartet’s debut concert at the Onion. Howard had been looking for that record for ages, and last week had found a shop that _had_ had one but had sold it that same morning. He’d been ridiculously disappointed.

Forgetting to knock, he opens the door and goes in.

And freezes in astonishment for the second time.

Vince is lying flat on his face on the sofa, sobbing his heart out.

“That’s not one of my records,” is all Howard can think of to say.

“It is now,” Vince sniffles, without looking up.

That doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. Apart perhaps from the tears. Howard peels off his soaked jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair; pulls up a footstool beside the sofa, and sits down cautiously beside Vince. “What are you doing here?”

Vince’s hiccupping reply is muffled in the cushions. “Thought I’d do the night watch. Was no way I was going to sleep anyway. Didn’t wanna go home.”

“Same as me, then.”

“ ’Cept you’re not a total wreck.”

“I haven’t exactly had the best of evenings either.”

Vince sighs deeply. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“We’re not fighting any more. Does that make you feel better?”

“Maybe. A bit.” Vince’s shoulders heave as he tries to get his voice under control. But it’s still wavery and tight as he says “Howard… need to tell you something…”

“What is it, little man?”

“It wasn’t – it wasn’t just the fight made me get like this…”

His voice cracks and breaks, and the sobs overwhelm him again.

“Oh, Vince.” Howard is close to tears himself. He puts a hand on Vince’s shoulder. “What have I done?”

“D’you know what day it is tomorrow?” Vince whispers hoarsely.

“Thursday,” Howard says. “Why?”

“It would’ve been our one-month anniversary. I thought it’d be nice to do something special on our night off. I was going to surprise you…”

“What with?” Howard is filled with remorse: he should have known, from the way Vince was bouncing with excitement at lunchtime.

“I’d booked a table at that posh new Italian place down the road. I know things haven’t been quite right recently, but I thought… this might be something that wouldn’t crowd you, I could see you working yourself up to yell ‘don’t touch me’ all the time but if we were on opposite sides of the table I wouldn’t be touchin’ you.”

He rolls onto his side, and looks at Howard with utter misery in his reddened eyes.

“An’ I bought the record last week – took me ages to find one – I picked it up at lunchtime today, was going to give it to you tonight at the restaurant. But…”

“But I ruined that for you.” Howard pushes the remains of Vince’s fringe out of his eyes, tucking the bedraggled locks neatly behind his ears.

Vince shakes his head, dislodging the hair again. “We ruined it for each other. Takes two to have a proper fight. And after we had it, I nearly smashed the disc.”

Howard winces at the very idea.

“But that seemed a waste, somebody else might want it even if I couldn’t give it you, so I was going to take it back to the shop in the morning. Then I thought I might as well play it, to try to figure out what jazz has that I don’t. Why you care about it so much.”

“I care about you more,” Howard says, but too quietly for Vince to hear.

“I expected to hate it. I thought it’d be boring, or squawky, or that too-clever stuff with weird rhythms that my brain can’t understand. But I liked it. I liked it from the beginnin’, the way these guys are so together, listenin’ to each other, going loud or soft just where they need to, helpin’ each other out. It’s genius. An’ then it broke my heart.”

Howard’s heart is breaking too. He clambers awkwardly onto the sofa and wraps his arms round Vince. “Why?”

“Because it’s all the things I can’t be. It’s all clever and grownup and smooth and toned-down and if that’s what you like, what you really want, well, that’s not me, is it?”

“Vince, that might be what I want from music. But it isn’t what I want from you.”

“What do you want?”

“I want – I just want you to be happy.”

“Me too. You, I mean. But I can’t do it.” The tears start afresh, running unheeded into Vince’s hair. “I’m sorry, Howard. I don’t know how this is s’posed to go. An’ I don’t understand what it’s about. I’ve just been making it up as I went along. All I know is, I p-promised you a happy ending, and this isn’t it…”

The trumpet plays a solo, soft and smoky and aching.

“Turn it off,” Vince begs.

“No, listen.” Howard knows what's coming next. He digs in his trouser pocket for a hankie, and passes it to Vince. “Listen to the music with me, just for a minute.”

Vince sniffs, and leans his head on Howard’s shoulder. “ ’M listening, Howard.”

The solo climbs to a high, yearning note, and the other instruments twine around it and pick up the slow rhythm again.

“These guys don’t know how it’ll end,” Howard says, stroking Vince’s damp hair. “Happy or sad or in a pig’s ear. They’re making it up as they go along. Most of the time they don’t even know exactly how it’s supposed to go – which note comes next, or who’s going to play what and whether it’s going to work if they do. But as long as they listen to each other…”

“Trust each other?”

“That too. They’ll all be in tune when they get to the end.”

“And when they play the next tune it’ll be easier, because they know they can do it.”

“See? You do understand what it’s about. Jazz isn’t an intellectual exercise, Vince. It’s from the heart.”

“Like love.”

“Yeah, like love.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Vince sighs, and kisses Howard’s cheek. “It all sounds so simple when you put it like that. Dunno why we had to make it so complicated. I’d have forgotten all about the restaurant and come along to your concert instead if you’d just _asked_ me.”

“I thought you wouldn’t like it.”

“I thought you didn’t want me there.”

“We both thought a lot of stuff that wasn’t true.” Howard becomes aware of the regular click-hiss, click-hiss of the last groove of the vinyl going round. He gets up and goes over to the record player. “Next time…”

“There’s going to be a next time?”

“Of course there is.”

“For everythin’?’

“For everything. Next night off, next date, next stupid argument. But whatever it is, let’s try talking about it before it all goes tits-up, eh?” He lifts the record reverently off the turntable.

“Turn it over,” Vince says.

“Why, is there an interesting label on the other side?”

“No, I meant turn it over and start it again. So we can listen to it together, from the beginning. I’d like that.”

Howard switches the gramophone back on.

He hopes fervently that he was wrong about there being a next stupid argument. But at least he knows now that even if there is one, it’s not a big deal: it’s just like the record jumping a groove.

They can always start the music again, and play it from the beginning, as many times as it takes to get it right.


	7. Chapter Seven and The Epilogue

It’s Thursday, and it’s only about nine o’clock, butVince is already tucked up in his half of the double sleeping bag, waiting for Howard to come out of the bathroom.

He’s been in there _ages_. Vince wonders what on earth he’s doing. If he’s much longer, he’ll come back to find Vince has fallen asleep.

Vince looks round the familiar hut, and starts wondering what it would have been like, if Howard hadn’t taken that wrong turning last night. Or worse, if they’d stayed angry with each other and still weren’t speaking.

It could be someone else in that bathroom right now, and Vince wouldn’t be in bed (and would have clothes on), and he’d have had a horrible day and wouldn’t have slept last night and wouldn’t be going to sleep tonight either and he’d be miserable.

There’s a lump in his throat now, just from thinking about it.

He pulls the covers up round his shoulders, and makes himself think about happy times instead.

Last night was happy times.

Mostly.

…

 

Howard put the music back on and went to fetch a bottle of Bailey’s and a mug before snuggling down on the sofa next to Vince.

“Thank you,” he said. “This is one of the best presents anybody’s ever given me.” And then he couldn’t say any more for a while, but Vince knew he’d got something right, and that was a wonderful warm fuzzy feeling after all the wrongness.

Vince gave Howard his hankie back and opened the Baileys, and they passed the mug back and forth, and the jazz threaded itself softly through the spaces in their conversation as Vince told Howard all about his adventures hunting for that disc in strange music shops and how he’d used the knowledge he’d picked up from Howard in order to invent himself a convincing online identity as ‘jazz_maverick69’ and get people on record-collectors’ forums to tell him stuff about where to look next.

The warm encouragement in Howard’s voice would have made the whole thing worth while even if the recording itself had been rubbish.

Then Howard told Vince all about his disastrous evening and they had a laugh about the drummer’s stupid hat, even though Vince hadn’t seen it.

After a while, the gaps in the conversation were getting longer than the talking parts; and by the time they’d turned over to the B side, Howard and the music and the Bailey’s between them had made Vince so relaxed he’d stopped talking altogether, and so had Howard, and they just held each other and just listened.

They’ve never listened to jazz together before. Not like that anyway. They’ve been in the same room while jazz music was playing and Howard was going on about it and Vince was interrupting, plenty of times, but this was different. Intimate, somehow. Almost like having sex, but without the heavy breathing and the sticky noises.

Howard took a comb from his pocket and started working it gently through the worst of the snarls in Vince’s hair.

It made Vince feel all wobbly.

Eventually it dawned on him that he was also wobbly because he was ravenous – he hadn’t eaten since his lunchtime sandwich, which he hadn’t finished because after the argument he wasn’t hungry any more. So when the music ended, Howard made them both cheese on toast and put more Bailey’s in the cocoa.

“Not exactly your posh restaurant,” Howard said, putting his empty plate on the floor, “but at least we’ve had it to ourselves.”

Vince sighed. “I’m sorry our date didn’t work out, Howard.”

“Well, next time you plan a date, don’t leave it to the last minute, tell me in advance. The anticipation’s all part of the fun. That’s how dates are supposed to be.”

And then Vince went wrong. So wrong, he nearly broke everything again. Without even thinking about it, he said:

“Like you’d know.”

“ _Don’t_.” Howard’s face twisted with pain. “Why do you always have to do this?”

“Do what?” But he knew what; he was just trying to cover himself.

“Snipe at me, bring me down. You’ve been getting at me for the past fortnight.”

“I haven’t.”

“You _have_! The grey hair. The ‘little shifty eyes’ thing. The _shoes_ , this morning.”

Vince thought about it. “I have, haven’t I?”

“Yes. And I can’t bear it.”

“I’m sorry… They _are_ rubbish shoes, though.”

“ _Vince_ …”

The thought that Howard might be about to walk out again made Vince feel even more wobbly than before. He grabbed Howard’s hand and hung on tight.

“I didn’t mean it like that. Please don’t go away again, I didn’t know I was going to say that, or any of the other stuff. I think I know why I did, though…”

Howard let Vince go on holding his hand while he explained that the needling was meant affectionately, at least to begin with. They’d always used to diss each other when they were just-friends and he’d thought perhaps Howard was missing their old banter; he’d felt Howard’s worry about their new life as a couple and wanted to take him back to somewhere he’d feel safer. And the clinginess was because he had horrible nightmares – nightmares about Howard dying – every time he had to spend a night on his own. And both were because he wanted, needed, Howard’s attention and even bad attention is better than none at all…

Howard had listened patiently as Vince struggled to explain all this; had gone on listening patiently for hours, until he’d fallen asleep, right there on the sofa.

Vince had propped him up with cushions, as comfortably as he could, then snuggled in beside him and pulled the unzipped sleeping bags over both of them.

Waking this morning with Howard drooling onto his shoulder was a wonderful surprise.

And it got still better when Howard had finished apologizing and drying his shoulder, and said, “Vince?”

“Mmm?”

“Do you know what day it is today?”

“Thursday,” Vince mumbled, pretending to be half asleep although every nerve in his body was already tingling with anticipation at the suggestive way Howard had asked the question.

“It’s our one-month anniversary. And we’re on night duty tonight. I thought we could do something a bit special. Preferably involving you and that big jar of Nutella. Oh yes, sir, I’ll be comin’ atcha like a beam, like a…”

“Like a Cadbury’s chocolate finger and a couple of Jaffa Cakes?” Vince tilted his face up for a kiss, already looking forward to those lovely tickly whiskers being chocolate-coated, later on. And hopefully some other bits as well.

Howard laughed. Really laughed. “Happy Anniversary, little man.”

“Happy Anniversary, Howard.”

It has been a happy day, the sun shining, the animals docile and easy. They haven’t talked much – haven’t needed to, yet – but Vince has been giving Howard space, letting him be the one to seek contact, and Howard has been doing that. Maybe not spending quite as much time wrapped round Vince as Vince would like (which would be pretty much all the time) but still it’s been pretty good.

At least now Vince is fairly sure that when Howard sneaks a kiss round the back of the dolphin tank, or walks back to the feed store with Vince’s hand clasped in his, he’s doing it because he wants to and not just because Vince wants him to, which may not sound like much of a difference but actually makes all the difference in the world.

The tingle of anticipation has been growing all day. And part of Vince is growing and tingling too, at the thought of what’s going to happen when…

At last. The bathroom door opens. And Howard is standing there, clean and damp and tousled and stark naked, with a spoon in one hand and a big jar of Nutella in the other, and on his face the widest, wickedest grin that Vince has ever seen there.

“Umm, you might need to bring a towel as well,” Vince suggests.

“What for? I’ve got you to lick me clean, haven’t I? Unless you don’t want to…”

“Come here and I’ll show you whether I want to.”

Howard’s bits, liberally chocolate-coated, are completely the most delicious thing that Vince has ever put in his mouth, ever.

And when they’ve been very lovingly and thoroughly cleaned, and are standing all pink and proud, Vince lets Howard spread Little Vince with shiny, oozing, drippy, chocolatey goodness and discover for himself just how much better Nutella tastes when you’re eating it off someone you love.

Howard enjoys it so much he demands a second helping, so when Vince has helped himself to a sustaining snack from the leftovers on that extremely sticky moustache, he lies back and lets Howard take another teaspoonful.

“Mmmmm... chocolate...” Howard lifts Vince’s thigh and dribbles the stickiness into his groin and over his balls. It’s cool at first, soon warming to blood heat and running down.

Howard follows the wetness with his tongue, exploring a bit further than he usually lets himself.

He licks and sucks, making obscene and cheerful slurping noises, and when Vince’s balls are un-stickied and throbbing pleasantly, there’s still a damp trickle heading slowly and inevitably south into the Grand Canyon, but now Howard is hesitating…

“You’ve missed a bit.” Vince reaches behind him and turns the light out, so Howard can go on exploring in private and be less embarrassed.

He knows Howard wants to. He’s known it since Howard first touched him _there_ …

“Go on, Howard. It’s OK.”

Howard catches up with the remainder of the chocolate and licks it away. Then he makes a noise like a strangled sob, as though something’s broken, and suddenly there are wet fingers running through Vince’s crack, and Howard’s nose and whiskery lips and hot tongue pressing in there too, and Vince whimpers with joy as Howard starts to lick…

Howard is rimming him.

He never thought he’d see the day.

Howard is rimming him, and it’s fantastic.

It’s not long before the intrepid explorer has to break for air, and crawls up to lie with his head on Vince’s shoulder, panting and shuddering.

Vince holds him until he’s calmer; kisses the top of his head. Even there, he smells of chocolate. And sex. Vince is never going to look at his breakfast toast in quite the same way again.

“Thank you,” Howard whispers brokenly. “Thank you.”

“I think it’s me who should be saying that, actually.”

“You didn’t… mind?”

Vince wants to laugh, but he knows Howard’s confidence is too fragile to survive that, so he just hugs him. “No. Course not. It was nice. Really, really nice.”

After a little while he adds: “We could do… more, if you want.”

Howard thinks about that. Then he nods. “I do want.”

“Thought so.”

Howard snorts, a little ruefully. “What gave me away?”

“Well… _This_ , for a start.” Vince nudges his hip against Howard’s hardness. “And the fact that you’ve been trying so hard to keep your hands off my arse, but you can’t quite manage it, they always seem to end up there and then you whip ’em away again and hope I haven’t noticed. But I have.”

“I take my hat off to your detective skills, sir.”

“You could’ve just asked.”

“Something else you might have noticed is that I’m not very good at asking. Especially when I’m afraid that the answer might be no.”

“I think you might have been more scared I might say yes.”

“I think you might be right. I haven’t – Vince, I haven’t been able to get the idea out of my head since that first morning, but I don’t know…”

Lovely Howard. He’s being so painfully honest, and there’s such a lot he doesn’t know.

This, for one thing:

“Neither do I.”

“But you’ve… you’ve had sex before. Haven’t you? I mean, you talk about it as though you… and all those club nights when you’ve gone home with someone else…”

“Well, yeah, but the thing is – ”

Why’s it so hard to say? He’s getting as hung-up as Howard. Vince takes a deep breath.

“I’ve never bottomed. Never… you know, been… _had_.” He can feel himself blushing.

“But I thought –”

“Yeah, everybody thinks that. But just because I look like a girl, don’t mean I fuck like one.”

“Why not?”

The million-dollar question. Vince isn’t sure how to answer it.

He’s explored himself, slipped a lubed finger up there to find the sweet spot and see what all the fuss was about, but somehow letting someone else inside was always a step too far.

And he _liked_ being on top and making other people see stars. Making other people happy has always been a good way of distracting attention from his own anxieties.

But now… the thought of that big blunt shaft pushing into him…

“Sorry, that was rather a personal question, wasn’t it? No big deal, little man. We can do it the other way round if you want. I’d like that too.” But Howard’s whole body tenses as he says this, and Vince knows that Howard isn’t ready to take that step.

He could embarrass Howard by making him admit it.

He could _make_ him take that step; make him see stars and forget his reluctance.

Or Vince could step up to the mark himself.

“No, I’d like it if you were on top. Then it’s the first time for both of us. Makes it more special.”

“And there’s no pressure,” Howard says quietly.

“How d’you work that one out?”

“Well… I know you. If you did… what you usually do… with me, you’d want it to be better for me than it’s ever been for anyone else, and if something went wrong – not that I’m saying it would – but if it did, you’d mind. You’d feel you’d let me down. Whereas this way round, if I’m rubbish at it…”

“You won’t be.”

“We don’t know that. But at least I’ll have a good excuse, not having done it before. In fact, it gets us both off the hook. We can just have a go, have a good time, and not worry.”

“I like your thinkin’. I’m not sure I follow it all, but I like it. Cheers, Howard.”

“It’s just like a complicated passage in the music, Vince. We’ll get through it… with careful fingering.”

“Howard?”

“Yeah?” Howard’s voice is deliberately casual, but Vince can hear the laughter bubbling up underneath it.

“You makin’ filthy jokes again?”

“Yeah.” And now Howard is laughing properly, and the tension is broken, and Vince didn’t know it was possible to love this man any more than he already did, but they do say you should learn something every day…

He’s learnt enough today to last him for several years.

Vince clicks the light on again, and fetches the things they’ll need from his locker.

“Umm, why the nail file, Vince?”

“You reminded me.” Vince grins at Howard. “Careful fingering, remember? Your nails are way too long, I’m givin’ you an emergency manicure before I let you anywhere near my delicate bits.”

Howard blushes. “I’m sorry. I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Yes you had, you said you hadn’t stopped thinkin’ about it in the last month.”

“No, you pillock, I didn’t mean _that_ – I meant – ”

“You really do walk into these things, don’t you, Howard?” Vince kisses him affectionately on one blushing ear. “Don’t worry,” he whispers, “I promise not to put pink nail varnish on… this time.”

Vince never knew that trimming someone’s nails could be such a turn-on. But Howard is so trusting and eager, and Howard’s long, strong Northern fingers are so beautiful; and then there’s the thought of what those fingers might do, where Howard might be persuaded to put them…

Extreme concentration on his filing technique is needed to stop Vince coming on the spot.

Howard’s fingering is indeed very careful. Almost too careful, at first.

“Howard, I won’t break. I’m not made of cobwebs or anythin’. I’m made of sunshine. Go for it.”

“Help me out a bit here then, sunshine boy. I don’t know what exactly I’m supposed to be doing.”

“Yeah, you do, you were doin’ it fine earlier.” Vince spreads his legs a bit further apart. “Y’know where you were puttin’ your tongue? That’s where your finger needs to go.”

“Oh. All right, I’ll try…”

“Howard?”

“Yes?”

“Have you still got your eyes shut?”

“How did you know?”

Vince giggles. “I didn’t. But I know you. I don’t mind you looking. You’ve seen it all before anyway. An’ it might make it easier. You might even enjoy it. It’s dead sexy, watchin’ your finger disappear up someone’s – ”

“ _Vince_ …”

“I’m sorry. It is, though.”

“Little man, I know you’re nervous too, OK? And I know I asked you to help. But there is such a thing as too much information.”

“Sorry, Howard. Just… put some more lube on, and sort of work your way in.”

“It’s tight.” Howard still sounds worried.

“It’ll get easier. It’s been a long time.”

“And so warm…” Less worried now, more surprised. Surprised is good. Vince pushes back against Howard’s fingertip, and feels it slip into him.

“Oh.” Vince’s turn to be surprised.

“Are you all right? Should I stop?” Bless him.

“No, don’t stop, go on, that was a happy ‘oh’ not a hurt ‘oh’, the hurt one sounds like ‘ouch’,” Vince explains.

“Right.” Howard delves a little deeper. “Is that still OK for you?”

“It’s great.” Vince can’t think of a word to describe what this is like. Perhaps that particular word hasn’t been invented. “Can you get another one in there yet?”

“Another…”

“Finger. Beside the first one. It’ll help to… make room.”

The second finger slides in much more easily than the first, and Vince keeps talking, telling Howard what to do, and Howard keeps doing it, and when he slides the third finger in without being told, Vince knows it’s going to be all right now, so he shuts up. More or less.

Until Howard hits the sweet spot and Vince can’t keep quiet.

“ _Please_ …” He’s never heard himself beg for it before.

“Please, do that again?” Howard asks, and his voice is so gentle and Vince is so ready for it that he forgets to be scared.

“No. Well, not exactly. I meant, please… you know…”

“ ‘Please put a rubber on and bum me silly’?”

Vince breaks into astonished laughter. “Howard Moon, I love it when you talk dirty. You should do it more often. Yes, please put one of those on and do exactly that.”

“Your wish, sir, is my command.” Howard carefully removes his hand. “Oh, and by the way, you were absolutely right, it was very sexy indeed, watching that.”

“You ain’t seen nuthin’ yet.” Vince rolls over. “Howard, I wanna see your face while we’re doin’ this.”

“Is that technically feasible?” Howard aims the condom wrapper at the bin, and scores a goal in one.

“If that means ‘can we?’ then yeah, we can.”

Vince folds himself up; hitches one leg over Howard’s shoulder, and guides him into position.

It does hurt a bit as Howard presses inside, and he can see that Howard knows it does.

“Do you want me to stop?”

“Course not.”

Howard leans down and kisses him. He tastes of chocolate and salt, and he’s breathing fast and shallow, like a cornered guineapig. Vince can feel his heart thumping.

“You OK, Howard?” Vince whispers.

“Never better, little man. Never better. Thank you…”

“Hey.” Vince strokes Howard’s damp hair back from his forehead. (Waste of time really, it’s bound to flop straight back again, but it feels nice.) “I told you, it’s me who should be sayin’ that.”

He kisses Howard again, and wiggles a bit, pushing his hips up ever so slightly to help Howard a bit further in.

Pretty soon Vince stops feeling sore, although it still feels a bit weird, sort-of… stretched and a bit achy. But it’s a nice ache, satisfying, like the one you get in your legs after a really long walk, or in your insides after an epic Indian takeaway when you’ve eaten the set meal for 4 between two of you.

Howard relaxes a bit, although he goes on being very gentle and careful, and they both know what they’re doing now, the certainty growing between them that it really is going to be all right, and it’s like they’re talking to each other, really talking, only better than that because it mostly doesn’t need words.

It’s yet another strange new sensation when Howard’s balls bump up against Vince’s arse and he realizes that Howard is right up inside him. Right up, as far as he could go.

Vince wonders what that looks like. He can already see from Howard’s face exactly how good it feels. How fantastic is that, to be able to make someone else so happy…

“ _OH_.”

All thoughts are driven clean out of Vince’s head as Howard finds his sweet spot again; and this time Vince really does see stars. Sparkly ones, like fireworks.

“Vince, I – I’m not far off – you know...” Howard is propped above him, his nipples hard and his chest all flushed and sweaty. “Is that OK? Would you rather I –”

“No, don’t you dare, you stay right where you are.”

“What about you? I’d, um, give you a hand but I don’t seem to have a spare one.”

“I’ll sort myself out, don’t worry.” Vince reaches in between them and takes hold of Little Vince. He’s not far off himself…

“Do you have any idea how sexy you look right now?” Howard asks, grinning.

“Nothing like as sexy as you do.” Vince thrusts upwards, and sees more stars. “C’mon Howard, let’s go for it. Together.”

“Together,” Howard agrees, and starts to move with a steady rhythm, and this time, unlike all the times before, he doesn’t turn his head away to hide his face.

He lets Vince watch him as he loses control, bit by bit, and Vince sees the rush hit him, and it’s just the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

It tips him over the edge too, but he’s barely aware of his own climax, except for the funny little squeak he lets out and the fact that there’s wet on his hand and trickling down his side.

Howard clings on to him and kisses him and thanks him and cries on his shoulder while Vince does his best to clean up and reassure Howard that he means it when he says that’s the best sex he’s ever had.

And once they’re sorted and back in bed and the light’s out, Vince is completely relaxed, and completely happy, all cosy and sleepy in the chocolatey darkness with Howard beside him.

But Howard fidgets and rolls over. Then he gets out of bed and pads into the kitchen. There is a brief rustling of paper.

“What was that all about?” Vince mumbles, as Howard slides back into the sleeping bag and wraps him in a warm embrace.

“Just putting Nutella on next week’s shopping list. We don’t seem to have much left.”

 

…  
EPILOGUE

 

It’s Friday, and it’s half past three. Naboo and Bollo are taking a break in the kiosk.

The Zooniverse is quiet in the late October sunshine.

Bob Fossil still doesn’t appear to have noticed the nifty landscaping job in the yard, although a pair of flamingos have moved into the pond where Howard’s grave was. According to Vince, they are very happy and talking about settling down together permanently, perhaps even nesting.

Naboo suspects that they are not the only ones.

He passes the hookah pipe over to his familiar. “Go easy on it though, yeah? You’re still not used to it.”

Bollo coughs. “Sofa much better than cage. Thank you.”

Naboo takes another drag. “One day you won’t have to sleep in a cage either. One day we’re gonna get out of this zoo for good.”

“What you do instead of kiosk?”

The shaman shrugs. “Work in Dixons, prob’ly. Maybe look for an opportunity in the music business. I did think about becomin’ a mighty hawk, but…”

“But Bollo no like flying.” The gorilla gets up and stretches out his arms, pretending to be a bird.

“ _Careful!_ ” Naboo niftily catches the crystal ball that’s just been knocked off its shelf by a big hairy arm. “Come and sit down again. You lightweight, you’re pretty much flyin’ already and you’ve only had a couple of puffs.”

Bollo stumbles back to the sofa, tripping over two footstools and a potted cactus on the way. “You got so much stuff in here, you should open shop,” he grumbles.

“Maybe I will. Could go down pretty well in the right sort of area. Say, Dalston or somewhere. Yeah. A little boutique.”

“Little what?”

“Boutique.”

Bollo starts to shake and snort. Perhaps gorillas and weed don’t mix.

“Bollo, you OK?”

Bollo snorts some more, then says incoherently: “Naboo – ”

“Yeah, it’s OK Bollo, I’m here.”

“TEAK!” Bollo splutters.

Something really is wrong. He seems to be having some sort of fit involving the names of tropical hardwoods. Naboo scrambles to his feet. “Hang in there, I’ll fix you an antidote…”

“No need fixing, Bollo fine, Bollo make joke.”

“I don’t get it.”

Gorilla giggling is not a sound Naboo has ever heard before, but he is pretty certain he’s hearing it now. “You Naboo. Shop boutique…”

And Bollo rolls off the sofa onto the floor with a thud that shakes several small objects off the shelves to rain down onto the rug around his helpless, hysterical body.

“ _Nabootique_!”

Naboo looks down at his familiar with sudden affection. That’s not a bad name for a shop, actually.

And suddenly he finds himself lying flat on his back on the rug with no idea how he got there.

Not only that, but he’s laughing out loud.

That particular batch of special tobacco must have been stronger than he thought.

 

…

 

Sweeping the last of the leaves from the path, Howard listens in bewilderment to the sounds of alien and gorilla hilarity coming from the kiosk. “What are they so happy about?”

“Dunno.” Vince grins. “But I know how they feel.”

Howard leans on his broom, and smiles back. “Me too, little man. Me too.”


End file.
